


Waiting On the 7 Train

by Peggy Pincurls (RedInHerLedger), PeggyPincurls (RedInHerLedger), RedInHerLedger



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, F/M, Gen, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Protective Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Suicidal Thoughts, Team Bonding, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 02:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19097785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedInHerLedger/pseuds/Peggy%20Pincurls, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedInHerLedger/pseuds/PeggyPincurls, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedInHerLedger/pseuds/RedInHerLedger
Summary: Steve and Bucky promised each other, till the end of the line.  On a night it might be, Bucky knocks on Steve's door, but the Captain doesn't answer.Luckily, someone else is home.





	Waiting On the 7 Train

_Sing me to sleep._  
_Sing me to sleep._  
_I’m tired and I want to go to bed._  
_Sing me to sleep._  
_Sing me to sleep, and then leave me alone._  
_Don’t try to wake me in the morning cause I will be gone._  
_Don’t feel bad for me. I want you to know_  
_Deep inside of my heart I will feel so glad to go._

**(The Smiths, _Asleep_ )**

**

He wasn't sure when he'd actually made the decision. It was somewhere between waking up and sitting up in bed...then laying back down again...sitting up...laying down...and then realizing six hours…eight….twelve had gone by and he hadn't gotten up.

Making the decision was oddly calming. It was nice to just _make a decision_. It was relaxing to commit, and a relief to know that a lot of the small stresses wouldn't matter soon enough.

But the problem was, that decision bred a lot more decisions. Having to make them for the last time didn't lessen any of the stress of making them. 

_I should shower._

OK. That wasn't too hard of a decision to make. He'd be found eventually, and he didn't want to be any grosser than one would usually be in that situation, since there was bound to be some noisome effects he wouldn't be aware of. He didn't dwell on that too long, because he didn't like the idea, and he didn't want to talk himself out of it over something stupid like whether or not his bladder would let go at the last second; he'd be beyond caring at that point and it seemed childish to have a detail like that be the tipping point. 

He twisted the taps and found himself studying the pattern of the soapscum on the plastic floor of his crappy stall shower as the water warmed up. Another question presented itself.

_Should I clean the place up a bit?_

He knew _he_ wanted to be clean when it was finally done, or at least as clean as someone in his situation could be at a time like this, but he hadn't given any previous thought to the apartment itself. The police would come--they would have to; it was standard protocol. They'd see how he lived, and maybe they'd think he was doing the world a favor-- _guy couldn't even keep his apartment clean. Look at this place. Lived like a bum._

There was a spray bottle of cleansing fluid and a dingy sponge in the space between the shower stall and the sink. Opening the door with a bump of his shoulder (the magnetic strip that was supposed to keep it closed had let go, and he had been too lazy to ever bother replacing it), he fetched them and gave the stall floor and walls a quick scrubdown. When he was through showering he did the same to the sink and the toilet bowl. It wasn't perfect, and for all he knew they wouldn't have any interest in his nubby bar of carbolic soap in the soap dish and the cheap shampoo he'd bought in what seemed to be the "green things" aisle of the convenience store because the fluorescent lights had been hurting his eyes and his head had ached and he'd just wanted to get out of there, but at least if they looked in they'd see it was relatively neat.

He busied himself around the apartment for a few moments, picking things up, putting them away, sweeping, wiping down his kitchen table. There. It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't anything to be ashamed of, either. It seemed silly to be embarrassed over what a bunch of cops would think of his apartment when they came, but there it was, all the same.

_What do I wear?_

He didn't have too many clothes, which ordinarily didn't bother him. He hardly went anywhere or did anything, and a few pairs of jeans and long-sleeved shirts suited him just fine. But like the apartment and the shower, he figured he should try at least to look presentable. If not now...when?

He looked at himself in the mirror he'd just wiped down, searching his own face for any vestige of the boy who'd been able to charm any girl right out of her tap pants. Those times seemed so far away, and for good reason—they were. A lifetime ago. 

He decided on his newest, darkest pair of jeans and a long-sleeved henley the color of charcoal. He couldn’t remember purchasing it; in fact, there was still a price tag attached to the collar. The shirt itself was soft, and the feel of the fabric against his skin was comforting. After a moment's thought, he pulled on a pair of thick wool socks. His feet were cold, and to be honest, he had always hated his toes and the thick nails he had trouble cutting. The socks were warm, and comfortable. He put his dog tags on, liking how they warmed against his skin beneath the thermal shirt. It wasn’t to help them identify him when they came—there was a much bigger thing that would do that—but he wanted that one connection to the past. To who he’d been. That done, he shaved and combed his damp hair. 

There. That was all right. Still scruffy, but presentable.

It was the meal that presented the decision he couldn't make. 

At first, he thought he shouldn't eat at all—this went back to the worrisome potential mess and the police and the things he was supposed to be beyond caring about--but his stomach was growling, and he didn't want to be distracted by anything when the time finally came. Besides, a creature comfort wasn't the worst thing to expend the last of his decision-making energies on before the huge final questions of _where_ in the apartment (he liked the beaten-up recliner in the living room and had basically decided on that, where he could look out the window to Brooklyn until he closed his eyes) and _how_ (he wanted to do something clean, like medication, but they were very strict with him when it came to his meds, probably for this exact reason, and moreover, he wasn't sure it would work, given how screwed up his body was after everything that had been done to him. For the same reason his medication was regulated, he was not allowed to own a gun, and they were more vigilant than he’d expected in ensuring he couldn’t lay his hands on one even if they couldn’t watch him every minute. It was going to have to be a blade, as much as he hated the dramatics of the idea). 

He opened the freezer and reached for a foil-wrapped bundle that he knew contained a couple of frozen slices of pizza, but stopped before his hand was on it.

 _Steve._

They had never had much money, either of them, Steve especially, but sometimes they'd scrape together a few cents doing odd jobs for the neighbors and splurge on slices at Patsy's. Pizza was the ultimate treat—a way to celebrate every milestone, every birthday, every graduation, and just be together, two boys from Brooklyn. When Steve had gotten into art school, Bucky had made sure they'd had a whole damned pie.

He could still remember how good it had tasted.

Closing his eyes now, he felt the ball of Steve's shoulder under his hand, felt the skinny bones beneath the arm he'd sling around his best friend. Heard their laughter. 

He shut the freezer and tried the fridge. 

There was a styrofoam container in there, and he frowned at it. He'd rather have eaten the pizza, but he was starting to calm down, to lose his nerve, and he didn't want to give himself an out. The styrofoam container held pad thai. It was all right, he supposed. Thai wasn't really his thing. But Natasha had insisted, told him he had to learn to eat more than just pizza and chicken and burgers. Closing his eyes again, he could see her, smirking as she gestured with her chopsticks, licking her full lips after savoring a bite of her own dish. He could see her in his mind’s eye, gracefully plucking a morsel from her plate with the chopsticks and holding it out to him temptingly.

Natasha, so patient, soft skin, sweet-smelling hair, strong embrace, reaching out to him despite everything he’d done, everything he’d done to her, Tasha becoming so important to him so fast, even if she might not yet know it...

Bucky shut the fridge.

_OK, fine, order something in._

But all the menus made him think of the meals he'd had and the friends he'd shared them with, and then the whispering doubts began.

_Look, it was just a bad day. Just go to sleep. Maybe you should—_

He shook himself physically out of these thoughts.

**_No. It’s enough. Too many bad days. Too often. It’s enough. It’s enough now. DO something. DO ANYTHING, but stop just curling up in bed and telling yourself that tomorrow MIGHT be a better day._ **

He looked at the menus again.

**

Natasha awoke from a soft dreamscape of greys and silvers to the knocking. 

"All right," she muttered, then thought it silly immediately; she was speaking to no one.

She was lying on the sofa in Steve and Peggy’s Tower quarters, there for the simple reason of wanting company. Natasha had spent most of her adult life alone, and upon becoming trustful of her true family—the Avengers—would, given the option, choose to be around people rather than by herself. 

But Steve hadn’t come back, and neither had Peggy; she knew they would not have minded finding her in their rooms, but for whatever reason, they hadn’t come home. She was fairly certain they were not on an assignment. She’d tried to remember if they had said anything about staying in the Brooklyn apartment this week and could not, but even their squat little corgi wasn’t curled up on his pillow or galloping around the suite, so she thought they might be there. Being tired, she thought they might not mind if she waited, and had dozed off on their comfortable sofa. 

As the knocking continued, Natasha snapped awake. Who could be at the door this time of night? There was no way Steve had done something as mundane as forgetting his keycard, and J.A.R.V.I.S. could have overridden the lock or employed identity-scanning software to admit him; that had been how she herself had gotten in. An attacker would not be expecting her to be there, nor would they have thought Steve dumb enough to answer a knock at the door without the visitor first identifying themselves.

Before even getting off the sofa, Natasha reached underneath it for the one companion she always had—one of her Glock 26s. Its twin was in her quarters, but she never went anywhere without one of them if she could avoid it, not even in the Tower. She transferred it from one hand to the other as she got to her feet and slipped to the door as silently as a shadow. The knocking was getting weaker, but had not ceased.

Holding her gun at the ready, she waited for the intruder to speak or attempt to break through the door. And then she heard a soft call of,

“Steve?”

She knew that voice. Lowering the gun, she put it on the occasional table—there was no need for it, from the sound of that plaintive call and the shuddery sigh that followed it--but opened the door carefully all the same.

Bucky Barnes was standing there, his eyes swimming. He was holding what looked like some sort of leaflets in his hands, crumpling with the force of his grip. But to his credit, he straightened up and even tried to smile at her when he saw she had answered the door instead of Steve.

“Tasha. What are you doing here?”

Natasha blinked; something about the sight of him put her immediately on edge. She was not afraid of him—rather, for him; that smile was one she remembered well. She had smiled it herself, many a time over the course of a long, bloody and scarred life.

She knew what inner turmoil prompted that smile. 

“Barnes. Are you all right?”

Bucky didn’t answer the question. “Oh...you were sleeping. I’m sorry I woke you up. I’m—I need—is Steve home?”

Natasha looked him over, taking in his appearance—his hair was clean and neatly combed; he was clean shaven and his charcoal-colored thermal looked relatively new. “I’m afraid not,” she said evenly, not wanting to startle him. “Did you come all the way from your apartment? Is something wrong?”

Bucky’s eyes were wet and jumpy. “Go back to sleep, Natasha.”

“Come inside,” she said, somehow unnerved by how bright his eyes were. “Let me make you something to eat.”

Slowly, Bucky hung his head. Natasha wasn’t sure why what she had said had made him so much more upset, but it was obvious as the strong line of his neck melted, the soft minky hair falling over his brow as his head swung languidly down. He took a deep breath, exhaled. Another.

She looked past where his nose pointed at the floor. Saw the tears sparkle in the overhead light from the hall as they fell from his eyes. It struck her enough to unconsciously address him by the name he’d told her he preferred. This had proved a little difficult for her to adjust to, but she was trying hard, partially due to respect for him and partially out of a desire to please him which she had yet to admit to herself. But she was thrown so off-balance by his tears that she did it easily, reflexively now:

“Bucky?”

He lifted his head to look at her, eyes streaming, and held the leaflets in his hands up. “I can’t decide.”

Natasha looked at the leaflets, finally seeing them for what they were—restaurant menus. Colorful lists of food for takeaway, from half a dozen restaurants. She knew where they lived in his drawer, but not why he’d brought them over here. He enlightened her, gazing at her with those tortured, teary eyes. 

"It's my last meal," he said softly, holding the menus out to her, "and I can't decide."

Natasha went very still. She pushed the fear she felt down, down to the soles of her bare feet. She’d danced on fear for years, danced across fear gracefully on her toes and never showing it. She met his eyes because pain this big deserved honor, deserved her full attention. She said nothing, waiting for him.

"Help me, Tasha." Bucky swallowed. "Please?"

She knew he wasn't asking her to help him select a takeout menu.

"Come inside, Bucky."

**

“That’s a nice jumper,” Natasha said, her lips feeling numb as she led him to the living room. 

He looked down at his shirt, tugging at his left sleeve, the one that covered his metal arm. “I wanted to look…”

"You look nice," Natasha said.

"I thought I should," he murmured. "When they come, they'll take pictures. And...and I wanted to."

She nodded. “Sit with me.”

They sat on the sofa, and she wanted to reach for his hand, but didn’t. Was it too trite? Would it upset him further? She wanted to ask _what happened_ , but even that seemed too forward. She settled for, “How was your day? What did you do?”

He looked at her. For a moment she was expecting him not to answer, but then he said, “Got up early. I didn’t mean to, but it happens sometimes. I went for a run. On Shore Road.”

“Steve and Peggy say they do that a lot. I keep meaning to, but I’m not in Brooklyn that much. I bet it’s a really pretty run.”

“I like the Verrazano bridge,” Bucky agreed. “On the way back you can see the Statue of Liberty. I...” He trailed off.

“What’s that?”

“Steve used to wave to her when we were kids. Whenever we saw her. So...I do too, now. It was nice to remember that, so when I see her, I wave.”

Natasha smiled, a real smile. “That’s...sweet.” She leaned forward. “Then what?”

“Went back home and...” He looked down again, and she saw another tear-gem fall to the carpet. “I napped. I nap a lot.”

“What do you think I was doing before you got here?” Natasha laughed. “Steve and Peggy nap _competitively_. And the winner is always Brooklyn, who somehow ends up with the whole bed while Peggy curls in a ball in the corner and Steve falls out of it entirely.”

Bucky laughed a little too, and then his gaze went faraway. “I love them so much.”

“They love you too.” Natasha wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “They’re your family.”

“I don’t want to hurt my family.” Bucky’s voice was soft, and that was when Natasha reached for his hands. She was unsure whether to take the left one so he would know she was not afraid of it, or the right so he could feel her there. In the end she took both. And then she asked the question.

“Bucky, what happened today?”

It came out in a whisper. “Nothing.”

She stroked her thumbs over his hands. “You can tell me.”

“I am telling you. Nothing happened today. Nothing at all. I went home and slept for hours, and when I woke up it was nighttime and I’d wasted the whole day. Again.” His lip was wobbling now. “I waste a lot of my days. I’ve wasted so many days. I don’t want to waste any more days. But I know I will.”

Natasha waited. 

“I love Steve,” Bucky continued. “I love Peggy. I...Natasha...”

She waited, trying to ignore the quickening metronome of her heart.

“I was happy to see you tonight. I’m always happy to see you. When I’m with you...I realize all of a sudden, over and over, that I’m happy.” He turned his face towards the ceiling, eyes widening as if he were trying to keep the tears from falling, failing at that. Looking back at her as they spilled over, he said, “Why do I still feel so _empty_?”

Natasha squeezed his hands, filing the compliment to her away in the jewelry box in her heart. She could open it later, make the plastic ballerina inside spin in her pirouette to the tinkling music as she admired his words in the light, that she made him happy. But this moment, this night, was about his feelings, not hers. “Oh, Bucky.”

“It _hurts_ ,” he growled. “I’m home. I’m free. I have friends—I have this _family_. And my whole _life_ still _hurts_.”

“Bucky--”

“ _Why_?” he demanded, his voice tortured. “Why aren’t I getting better? Why isn’t anything helping? I have so much that I never thought I’d have again. So much I want. So many good things, good people.” He jerked his hands back. “Why isn’t any of it helping?” He ground his fists into his eyes, like a child, then dropped them almost helplessly as he asked the question everyone who’d ever felt as hopeless as he did must have asked at some point.

“What’s _wrong_ with me?”

Abandoning any pretense of calm entirely, Natasha reached hurriedly for him then, held him as he started to cry in earnest. He clung to her, burying his face in the crook of her neck, and the intensity of his sobbing scared her. She held on. Held on.

“I’m so tired,” he lamented into her shoulder. “I’m so tired.”

“Of _course_ you are!” she said, drawing back a little but not letting go of him, surprised at his surprise. “James—Bucky—there is no way you could not be tired. Not while dealing with this.”

He blinked at her. 

“Think about it. You’re not tired from running or working or weight lifting,” she said. “You have post-traumatic stress disorder, and if you ask me, you have more right to it than most of us. You’re tired because dealing with it _makes you tired_.”

His expression wavered, as if he wanted to believe but was unsure.

“For God’s sake, Bucky. We’ve fought off gods and monsters and armies and mercenaries together. Now picture doing that, constantly, in your own mind, with no escape, a constant daily chase that ends with having to turn and face them.” She wasn’t sure if describing it would only make the situation worse, but she could think of no other thing to say. “Do you know what incredible strength that takes? To deal with that not only emotionally, but physically—shaking hands and legs, heart palpitations, tense muscles? There are plenty of studies at how detrimental stress is to the body. You’re goddamn right you’re tired.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered sadly. “I’m exhausted.”

“I think you can,” she responded softly. “I know it hurts. I’m here. Steve is here. Peggy. Bruce. Even Clint.” She added even more quietly, “Even Tony. We’re here.”

“I’m scared.” Again the whisper, like a child. “I’m scared of the pain. I’m scared of the future. It’s so empty. I’m so empty.”

“Maybe it is,” Natasha hazarded. Instead of making a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep, she made one she could. “We’ll face it together. We’ll go forward together. You can do it. You can.”

“I can’t, I can’t...” He shook his head, the tears sparkling, his voice distorted. 

She gripped his forearms. “Look at me. You can. I’ll help you. We’ll help you. It’s what bandages are for, Bucky. It’s what aspirin and blankets are for. It’s okay to feel this way, but we need you to stay with us. Stay in the family we’ve given you, the family they gave me when _I_ thought I couldn’t do it. Stay in the place where you realize you’re happy, all of a sudden, over and over. Everything you’re feeling is valid. It’s all right—but please don’t go.”

“I don’t want to go.” He sniffed wrathfully. “And I’m scared to stay. If I stay, I hurt. If I go, I hurt everyone I’ve loved.”

“Bucky, I—we need you here,” she insisted. “Wait. Can you wait? Can you wait and see?”

“See what?” he demanded angrily. “I told you, there’s nothing out there for me.”

“You don’t know that, and _we_ are right here.” She made her voice as stern as his. “You don’t have to decide right now.”

“You’re trying to talk me out of it.” His face twisted into what was almost a pout. 

“You’re damned right I am.” She stroked down his arm. “In case you can’t tell, I’m pretty damn desperate to. And you want me to. That’s why you’re here—you wanted Steve to. That’s why you came here.”

His eyes filled up again. “He promised,” he whispered. “Till the end of the line.”

“This doesn’t have to _be_ the end of the line,” Natasha said, feeling even more desperate, but every minute she kept him talking was a minute he wasn’t doing what he’d planned. She’d take it.

“He said he’d be there for me,” was the childlike protest, but it was soft and weak.

“He _is_ being here for you," Natasha said brashly. "He just sent me to do it, that's all."

Bucky quieted, tears glistening on his cheek.

“Come here,” Natasha said, drawing him to her again. She got the sudden idea that it had been a long time since he had been touched, even platonically, affectionately. She petted his hair, as if he were a little boy who’d skinned his knee. “Come here, _dorogoy_.”

They sat that way for a time; she’d rock him every so often, trying not to cry herself. She failed at that at some point, but that was all right.

“What is something you would like right now that we can get?” she asked finally. 

Bucky shifted, and she patted his shoulder. 

“No. Quick. First thing that comes to mind.”

And Bucky mumbled, “Chicken nuggets.”

She was silent for a second, and then she felt him shake against her. Not with tears—with laughter. And when he raised his head to look her in the face, he was smiling. “Kinda dumb, huh?”

She smiled back and reached to wipe his eyes with her fingertips. “Not at all. I even know where to get some.”

**

The cashier at the closest McDonald’s to the Tower was goggling at them. “Ma’am,” he said, tugging at his drive-thru headset nervously—the whole time they’d been inside at the counter, no one had driven up, which Natasha was grateful for—“are you sure? I think you may have—”

“I know what I damn well said,” Natasha said cheerfully, placing her hands on the counter. “Ten boxes.”

“There’s twenty in a box—”

“I know that,” she said patiently. “Ten. Boxes. Of nuggets, please.”

The cashier began tapping keys on the register. "Um...just a minute, ma'am."

“We can’t tell Tony we came here instead of Burger King and ordered nuggets instead of cheeseburgers,” Natasha teased Bucky as the bewildered cashier began loading nuggets into the fryer. “He’ll take it as a personal offense.” Thinking it over, she amended, “No, reverse that. Let’s brag about it.”

Bucky almost smiled.

“Why don’t you go find us a table and—” As she spoke, Natasha saw something displayed to the right of the cash register and lit up. “Oh my god. We _have_ to get these.”

“These” were an array of plastic toys displayed in a lucite case, the kind of toys that came inside Happy Meals as an incentive for children to beg their parents to buy them the meals. The toys changed periodically based on what pop culture was prevalent at the time, and these were little figures in the likenesses of the Avengers. Ever since the Battle of New York, the team had gotten used to being in the public eye, but Natasha was betting on Tony for licensing these. Steve was going to have kittens.

Luckily, there was not a toy in the Winter Soldier’s likeness—Bucky would not have been insulted; rather, he was still terrified of being recognized despite the fact that it was getting more common and the attention was less and less negative. Even without a miniature him in the lucite display case, he was blushing furiously. “Natasha. No.”

“Natasha _yes_ ,” she declared. Looking back at the cashier, she said, “Add two of those Happy Meals. The ones that come with the cheeseburgers, not the nuggets. We have enough nuggets. In fact, make them double cheeseburgers.”

The cashier, who had just decided that he was dealing with a madwoman and that he was not going to question anything she wanted anymore, asked, "Is this to stay or to go, ma'am?"

Natasha stepped gracefully next to Bucky, slipping an arm around him and cuddling into his side, not unaware of how well she fit there.

"To stay."

**

When the food was ready and Natasha had paid basically the GDP of a small country for two hundred chicken nuggets and two Happy Meals, she and Bucky took a seat at one of the tables. She urged him to open his Happy Meal first. “Which Avenger did you get?”

Bucky gave her a funny look, but dug around in the brightly colored cardboard box till he found the plastic-wrapped toy. Freeing it from its bag, he held it up. It was a green, adorably snarling, cutoff-jean clad Hulk with big, cartoony fists. 

“Yay!” Natasha said delightedly, in the high and happy voice of a child. “It’s Brucie. We have to show him. He’ll hate it.”

“I think this is a button.” Examining the base on which the plastic figure stood, Bucky depressed a section of it and the little figure waved its fists as if it were in a tiny rage.

Natasha laughed so hard she actually turned her face to the ceiling, a big, full-on belly laugh rarely heard from her. “Oh my god. That’s actually hilarious.” When she calmed, she said, “Let’s see which one I got.” 

Grinning and taking the toy out of her Happy Meal box, she handed it to Bucky. “Who is it?”

“I think...I think it’s _you_ ,” Bucky said in wonder, opening the plastic bag. “It looks like you.”

It was. The little action figure was a likeness of Natasha in her black suit, artfully tousled plastic curls, a cute cartoony smile, and green eyes painted onto the little face. It held little plastic batons just like the ones Natasha carried. When Bucky pressed the button, the figure swung the batons back and forth.

Natasha laughed. “This is so great. I bet Tony’s arc glows and Steve’s swings its shield. I wonder if there’s one of Clint. How do you think they’ll make him pretend to fire an arrow from his bow?” Teasingly, she said, “We should come back and get the rest of them.”

Bucky smiled, holding the figure out and pushing the button so it waved its batons at Natasha. “Looks just like you.”

**

Unsurprisingly, they did not finish the nuggets. While he’d made the double cheeseburger disappear in two bites, even Bucky’s enhanced metabolism couldn’t quite stand up to two hundred nuggets. Natasha loaded the fair quantity of remaining nuggets into a few of the boxes. The beleaguered cashier, who had been twitchy the whole time they had been there, offered her a paper bag with handles very quickly, looking relieved that they were leaving.

“Thank you,” Bucky told Natasha softly as they walked down the midnight street. “For the food, and the company.” Shuffling his feet, he added, “I should catch a train back to Brooklyn.” He'd dropped his head shyly, but raised his gaze to hers as he asked, very quietly, "Would you walk me?"

She felt the warmth of their easy time in the restaurant cooling, and she hated that. "Of course I will."

There was no way they would ever be the only ones on a train platform in New York, but it was close. The 7 would get him to Times Square and back to the R the fastest. She knew that it was at least an hour back to Brooklyn from there, and the R ran local no matter what time of day it was. She thought of Bucky slouched in a plastic orange and yellow train seat, looking small and sad, and she hated that too.

He looked exhausted as he raised his head to check the digital display that told them how long it would be until the next train came. Natasha followed his gaze, and in a wave of clarity that you usually had to meditate to have, she saw a number that she realized could easily be how many minutes she had left with him, ever. 

"Come on, Barnes."

Bucky looked at her. "What?"

"I said come on." She looped the handle of the carrier bag with its laughable cargo over her wrist and reached for his hand, the left one. She tugged on it, like they were children. "Come with me."

"The train's going to be here in—"

If he said the number she'd break; she'd cry. She shook her head, a little violently with the force of how she was not going to let that number be it, even if it was only a possibility instead of a reality. “No. You’re staying with me in the Tower. We’ll go to my quarters.” She circled to face him, getting as close as she dared, stepping into what could have been the circle of his arms if he would just reach for her. Like he'd reached for her earlier, at the door, what seemed like so long ago.

“But you were waiting for Steve,” Bucky said dubiously. 

“I was waiting to not be alone,” Natasha countered, touching her forehead to his. “So I was waiting for you.”

He didn’t answer, but he did brush his nose against hers.

**

She let Bucky shower first, but only after she’d carefully removed anything in the bathroom that could have been even remotely dangerous. Both her Glocks had gone into the safe as soon as they’d arrived. She didn’t think he’d try to take them, but she was not risking anything tonight.

She told him if he wanted a shave in the morning she’d do it for him. He didn’t argue; rather he said softly, “That would be nice.” He quirked an eyebrow when she gave him a sleeveless shirt and loose cotton pants that would fit him, but didn’t ask where she’d come by them.

While Bucky was showering, she ditched her clothes, grabbed a grey tank top and soft jogging pants and yanked on a soft fleecy robe that was so big she was nearly swimming in it because they were the first things she found. She didn't want to leave him alone for too long. 

When he opened the bathroom door and peeked out to find her there, steam billowing out from around him like souls escaping the world, she presented him with a new toothbrush in plastic wrap, and told him to use it while she showered. Again, he offered no argument, and she tossed the robe out of the shower as soon as she was in there.  
As soon as she heard him twist the taps and run the faucet, she did the same and showered in record time, asking him random questions through the shower curtain to keep him in the room. When she was done, she asked him to hand him her towel and clothes, which he did obediently. Before he could leave the room, she dried off and dressed like she were on her way to a fire.

Bucky was so calm at this point and looked so tired that she was beginning to think she was worrying a little too much, but she reminded himself of how he'd stood at the door of Steve's quarters, crumpling the take-out menus in his shaking hands, and that reminded her that when it came to her Avengers—and more and more lately, to the Winter Soldier—there was no such thing as overprotective. 

She led him to her bedroom and turned down the bedclothes. “In you go.”

He obeyed, settling at one end of her king-sized bed. “Where will you sleep?”

“Here. Room for two,” she said gently, adding, “Not alone. Okay? You’re not alone.”

It was the answer he seemed to have wanted; he cuddled into the blankets and watched her climb into the bed.

“Natasha?” he asked softly. 

“Mmhm?” She was wriggling under the comforter. 

When she was comfortable, Bucky said hesitantly, “Can I have you?”

Unsure if she’d heard right, she blinked and said, “Can you what?”

He smiled shyly and held up the little plastic toy that had come with her Happy Meal—the little Black Widow with her plastic curls and her tiny batons, which she had placed idly on the nightstand while she’d fetched their clothes. 

“Can I...have...you?”

She smiled, tempering her gentle kiss to his brow by scratching his belly with her nails, making him shudder pleasantly. “I’m all yours.”

All night, the little Black Widow stood guard on the nightstand to keep them safe as the big one curled around the Winter Soldier. To keep _him_ safe.

**

When she awoke the next morning, they were still snuggled together, warm and safe. She didn’t mind, especially since a clear-eyed Bucky was stroking her hair, gently, looking at her as though she were something precious and fine.

“Hi,” she said.

“Natasha...” He looked exhausted but calm. “I don’t know how to thank—”

“Let’s go for a walk today,” she interrupted. “It looks nice out. Want to?”

Shyly, he nodded.

“Yay,” she said in an exaggeratedly girlish voice, but she knew in her heart that she meant it. “But first...”

He looked confused for a moment, and she smiled up at him. 

“Want to microwave some chicken nuggets?”

**

 _There is another world_  
_There is a better world_  
_Well, there must be_  
_There must be._

**(The Smiths, _Asleep_ )**

**Author's Note:**

> It hasn't been easy lately. I will not lie about that.
> 
> It basically feels like my life has dropped through a trapdoor. Some of it is Endgame depression (I'm sorry. Fuck Endgame. There was exactly one part in it I liked, and I think you know what part, and you know what? Even _that_ wasn't executed well. There may be fix-it fic here in the future, and I'm going to scream on social media until they fix the part I hated the most in a way I can live with, but in the meantime I will be continuing Star-Spangled Heart and working on its as-yet-unpublished sequel because in my headcanon everything is as it should be, and if you'd like to come along for the ride, please feel free), some of it is my own clinically diagnosed bipolar disorder (never be ashamed, _brat'ya i sestry_ , for the battles you fight and the daily wars you win), and some of it is just feeling like my future is a bleak grey desert, empty and cold. 
> 
> I have been in Bucky's apartment.
> 
> You think about these things when you think about possibly, maybe, making an actual plan. Where do I go. What do I wear. They'll come and see how I've left my flat. What do I want my hair to look like. What is the last thing I want to read. What is the last song I want to hear. Who do I want to give my favorite stuffed animal to and will they play with him so he doesn't feel alone and 
> 
> (I have to stop now. I'm tearing up. I'm sorry.)
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> You do think about these things, or at least I do and did, and I'm lucky I have the best friends in the world, friends who left work when I called and they knew I needed them. Friends who were strangers to each other until the call went out--"Natasha is in trouble--can I call you later once I've got her at the house"--friends who invited me over so I wouldn't be alone, so I'd have food to eat and groceries in the icebox. And one brave, brave Avenger, web-slinger, spellcaster, higher further faster, old friend, best friend, who promised when I asked, yes, if it comes to going to the hospital voluntarily, my mother and I will come along, we'll walk you in. And that yes, she'd take care of my stuffed toy and play with him till I was well enough to come home and I have to stop again, I'm sorry, tears make it hard to see the screen.
> 
> Luckily, it did not come to that. My friends in this world and the Avengers in the beautiful fantasy world in my head have given me the strength to keep going, try to wipe out the ledger, try harder, wait, keep going, one more day, six more hours, one more hour, thirty minutes, ten. I have tattoos that honor every story that's keeping me here. Trying is the most difficult part and perversely it is always the part that must come first. Like the song goes, trying is hard. That's why people don't do it.
> 
> I guess what I'm trying to say is, call for backup. Knock on doors. Someone will answer. Someone _will_ answer. If there's no other doors, knock on mine. natalierushman64@gmail.com. She's not alone. He's not alone. You're not alone. Knock. I'll answer.
> 
> The title of this story is from one of my favorite songs. If you've read my other work, you may have come across it before, and the fact that this story references that story is not an accident.
> 
> I mean it. Knock if you need to. I'm home. I'll be there.


End file.
